“How old?” I asked.
“These are mostly reproductions of much older looms but some have been repaired and still contain the original parts maybe five centuries old. This one, for instance,” she said, indicating a long frame loom with a wooden wheel attached to one side. “I think Maria said this was the oldest. The studio wove its last textile in the late 1800s, a bishop’s mantle, I believe.”
“Nicolina, this place is a treasure,” I gasped. “I mean, really!”
“And yet so many see no value in historic textiles.”
“Fools!” I said with vehemence. “Textiles clothe us, reveal who we are or who we want to be, and are quite possibly the result of some of the first of humanity’s technologies.” Okay, so soapbox time but that’s how passionately textiles speak to me.
“Yes,” she said sadly, “I knew you would understand and now it is my task to preserve it all somehow. Come, let us go upstairs to the vault.”
We carried on up another flight of stairs to the third floor, Seraphina leading the way. She switched on the light, presumably because this being an interior room, cracks in the shutters had less chance of giving us away. She then proceeded to check every corner as if expecting a thief to be still lurking there.
I focused on the vault, a large walk-in structure with a blackened gaping door dominating the space. Nicolina shook her head and muttered in Italian over the debris, the damage to the floor, the papers strewn everywhere, the fingerprint powder dusting every surface.
“Plastic explosives,” Seraphina remarked, poking her head in moments later. “It could have been worse.”
“But what if the blast damaged the paintings? It is still an explosion,” Nicolina fumed.
Seraphina pointed to the interior of the vault where no signs of damage could be seen other than a bulging impression on the inside of the door and the apparent rifling of the papers and files inside. “The blast damaged only the locking mechanism.”
Nicolina strode forward. “But they did not take the jewelry box, did not take the cash in the strongbox, just the painting and what else?”
“Maybe they were interrupted,” I suggested from the doorway. “The painting was presumably easy to spot but maybe other items not so much. They wouldn’t have had much time. Didn’t you say that this studio may have once woven the same textile as in the bride’s gown?”
“So Maria believed.”
“Where might sample fabrics be, do you think?”
“In the library,” she remarked, staring at a wad of papers scattered on the floor. “They were looking for something,” she remarked. “Peroni thought so, too. We must find the deeds to the properties and any earlier copies of the wills plus a list of possible holdings.”
“I’ll visit the library in the meantime.”
“Yes, do. For now, Seraphina and I must sort through what is left and compare it with the will, a copy if which I have. I doubt that everything in the vault was recorded but I’m thinking jewelry, the properties…”
“What were these properties exactly?” I asked.
Nicolina bent to pick up a leather-bound portfolio. “The Continis owned an olive orchard in Tuscany, I think, and a vacation property somewhere.”
“Morocco,” Seraphina said, stepping into the vault. “Zara mentioned that the family used to go to Marrakech years ago for sun during the gloomy months. It was where she first met the family decades ago.”
“Oh, yes,” Nicolina mused as she passed the leather portfolio to her assistant. “I had forgotten that—the riad. Maria never went by herself after her parents died. She said the intense sun did not suit her.”
“I believe it’s been leased out as an Airbnb now,” Seraphina commented as she began collecting the documents and folders. “Maybe we will go sometime.”
“More likely I will sell it.” Nicolina turned to me. “Phoebe, the library, which you will find interesting, is in the room down the hall if you wish to take a look. Once we collect all these documents, we will come to retrieve you.”
I checked my watch: 10:10. Still plenty of time. I turned the corner and strode down the hall to the next room. I just stood in the doorway for a moment flashing my light around. It was a small library with a single wall of tall fat books housed behind glass in what looked to be a humidity-controlled environment.
I stepped forward. A tiny round sensor measured the percentage of moisture inside the shelves and a table stood nearby. I ran my phone light over the dusty table with its study lamp before moving on to the shelves, staring at the books that were unusually thick, like scrapbooks or journals.
The writing on the spines was Italian, of course, but the thickest and the oldest-looking of the leather-bound volumes sat way back at the far end of the shelf with Roman numerals imprinted in gold onto their spines. The first volume caught my attention immediately: MDXV-MDC. 1515 to 1600?
My hands were trembling so much when I slid open the glass and lifted the oldest volume onto the table that I thought I’d drop it. Of course I shouldn’t be handling such a treasure without gloves in the first place, but since my gloves were so disgusting, I didn’t have a choice.
I flashed a quick glance up to the windows. Too long arched windows shuttered against the light and, if my orientation was correct, they looked out over the back canal and not the Cannaregio. That settled it: I risked turning on the lamp. With excruciating care, I opened the cover, letting it fall open on a compendium of line drawings of motifs and patterns. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Could it be that every pattern produced by the house since the establishment began was recorded in these books? Why hadn’t anyone mentioned it—had it been forgotten, overlooked, or what?
Nicolina appeared at the door. “Phoebe, we have collected all that is valuable. We must get back if we are to meet with Evan. Are you ready?”
“Nicolina, these are important. If they are what I think they are, they could be a repository for every fabric pattern the Contini house ever produced. It’s amazing that such a thing even survived these centuries. Imagine a recording of every bolt of fabric, including who they went to—whether to market, to specific customers—since the studio first began?”
Of course a weaving house like this would record such things. They were like recipes, and other volumes might contain records of dyes and maybe weaving “cartoons,” which the weavers used to set their looms. Thousands of patterns are recorded in the safekeeping by the Victoria and Albert Museum alone, but this house has remained in the same Italian family for centuries. One single family. It’s incredible.
“Yes, Maria wanted them preserved. This I will do when all is settled.”
“But they are at least as valuable as the jewelry and deeds.”
“To some, perhaps.”
“Maybe we could take a couple of these volumes with us?”
Nicolina shook her head. “They are too heavy and awkward, Phoebe, and they could be damaged in the tunnel, yes? All our bags are full. Tomorrow we will return to retrieve them, but for now, I must study what is needed for the will.”
I couldn’t refute her logic: dragging those precious volumes through the corridor without protection hardly made sense. “Right. Tomorrow, then.” Reluctantly, I returned the one volume to the shelf, closed the glass door, and prepared to make the journey back. With my hood up and the mask secured, I gathered up the bundles, now stuffed into the carrier bags—one per hand—and followed Seraphina down the stairs.
But I could not get those books out of my head.
They stayed on my mind all the way back through the corridor, which was just as unpleasant as expected—worse actually, since my hands were full and I almost dropped my load onto the slimy surface more than once. Luckily, Nicolina was bringing up the rear and her impressive reflexes always seemed to catch me before I fell headfirst into the slime.
Ten minutes later, we broke into the dimly lit cantina and not a second too soon from my perspective. I dropped the bags and ripped off the ma
sk before leaning against the tarp-covered gondola, gasping for breath. Meanwhile, my companions made their way through the shrouded forms toward the stairs, masks still in place.
Suddenly I heard a crash and a man shout something in Italian followed by, “Or I’ll shoot!”
12
Seraphina was pointing her gun and shouting when I dashed from the shadows, my hands in the air: “Evan, it’s me, Phoebe! That’s Seraphina and Nicolina. Put down the damn gun!”
The man crouching behind a mound of boxes stood up and lowered his pistol. “Ms. Phoebe? Are you unharmed?”
Nicolina yanked off her sequined mask and flipped back her hood and spoke in her most imperious tone. “What are you doing here? You were asked to come to the back canal door, not break it down!”
I turned. The door to the canal hung open on its hinges, part of it shattered as if hit with a battering ram. And the boat was gone.
“This is how I found it minutes ago,” Evan explained, his tone measured. “I called out but there was no answer. Naturally, I was afraid you’d been robbed or worse, and was about to head upstairs when you appeared.”
“You are lucky I didn’t shoot you,” Seraphina muttered, glancing at the ruined door. “Someone has broken into the house.”
“More likely I would have shot you,” he remarked. “I’ve given this level a cursory check. They must have escaped with your boat.”
“Upstairs immediately!” Nicolina ordered, heading for the steps with her own pistol drawn.
“No, wait, Countess! I will go first,” Seraphina cried, dashing after her, but her employer’s sleek booties were already up to the kitchen. Evan and I bounded after them, me pulling out my pistol along the way.
Once on the main level, everyone fanned out as if by some unspoken stealth investigation code. I took the main salon and dining area, keeping to the corners and swinging my gun around 360 degrees when entering a new room the way I’d seen television cops do. I’d have felt ridiculous if not for the overwhelming sense of threat. Either intruders were currently in the house or had been recently.
Seraphina could be heard calling to Zara. There was pounding on a door, an answering cry followed by a tense exchange in Italian before everything went silent. I continued with my downstairs investigation, poking into cabinets, peering into closets. Every room was empty but I couldn’t tell if anything was missing, once I discounted the obvious, that is.
Minutes later, I met Evan in the hall. “All clear,” he told me, “at least in terms of active intruders.”
“Same here but what about the police outside?”
Before he could reply, my phone pinged in my pocket. I pulled it out and read a text from Nicolina: Nothing missing up here. Do not speak of anything important aloud. Come upstairs.
I turned the phone for Evan to read. He nodded and we proceeded upstairs in silence. Nicolina was waiting at the second-floor landing, one finger to her lips. Behind her down the hall, Zara sat in a chair with one hand over her mouth while Seraphina stood on a chair nearby taking apart a lamp sconce. Nicolina opened her palm to show us a tiny surveillance device that had obviously just been retrieved.
“Common as ants,” I muttered until Nicolina shushed me.
Evan picked the thing up between his thumb and index finger, bringing it under a table lamp to study. Though I was no expert in these things, it certainly didn’t look like the ones I’d smashed this morning. When he straightened moments later, he shook his head, expression tense. Don’t recognize it, he mouthed, and pulled out his phone to help Seraphina scan the premises for more.
Nicolina and I stood together watching as her assistant glowered at him when, seconds later, his phone flashed red while passing it over a picture frame she had just investigated. “He is very good,” Nicolina said barely audibly. She touched my arm and our eyes met.
“What about the police officer outside?” I whispered.
She whispered back. “Leave him. Come, we must talk.” And with that she beckoned me to follow her up the stairs to the roof.
Only when we were standing under the pergola, buffeted by a cool damp breeze, did she speak. “Do not trust anybody.”
“But—”
“Phoebe, listen: there has been a spy in this house, someone who has placed those devices. It could be the police when they were here today. There were at least six special agents all over the house. Dirty police happen in Italy, too, yes? Commissario Peroni may not know about it or perhaps he is on—what do you say? On the take. Until we know, we cannot take chances.”
“But why break down the canal door and steal the boat?”
“I do not know. They were seeking something, maybe they found it. Upstairs in Maria’s room, the mannequins are fallen over, the library books tumbled on the floor—all very messy, as if they were in a hurry. They knew when we left the house this evening.”
“But nothing is missing?”
“Nothing I can see but I do not know every single item. When Zara recovers, we will have her go through the house to check everything. She is very upset.”
“And what about Zara?”
“She can hear nothing without her aid and goes to bed early. They must have known that, too.”
“And they probably bugged the salon where I shared my theories with Peroni. They must know everything I suspect by now. They’ve stolen my ideas!” Such a travesty. My ideas, at least, were mine, mine!
I cast a glance across the canal to where I had first seen the watcher in what seemed like years ago. “So they stole the painting thinking that it would lead them to something even more valuable only to discover that they needed additional information, information they may have gotten from me.” A sudden chill hit my spine. “But they still need more. Nicolina, I’ve got to get back to my room.”
“We will scan there, too.”
“Now,” I said, and with that I practically ran downstairs. When I reached my door, I froze. Evan stood in the center of the room with two shattered devices in his hand. His eyes said it all.
“Where?”
He pointed to the bedpost and side table.
“Seriously? But I’m sure I passed your detection device over both of those.”
He frowned. “Unless you hold the phone no farther away than three inches from the surface, the sensor may miss the device. This one was tucked inside the lady’s mouth.” He indicated the carved nymph on the bed who appeared to be blowing kisses.
“That’s no lady, that’s a nymph,” I remarked.
He studied the carving more closely and smiled. “Correct. In any case, I will need to work on improving the device’s distance capabilities. The other one I found under the table placed in the back corner.”
“And my bag?”
“Other than Seraphina’s tracker that I located yesterday, it appears clear.”
I relaxed. “Thank God. That thing comes with me everywhere.”
“Nevertheless, my device requires more work apparently. I’ve tested on five kinds of trackers to date but there are more, like these, for example—cheap enough to purchase by the handful.”
“Online?”
“Chinese mail-order, yes.”
It was disconcerting to think that surveillance devices could be purchased as easily as printer cartridges. “But when would they have found the time to secrete them all over the house?” Despite the reputation of corruption, I didn’t believe the police had hidden these. I doubted they used Chinese technology, for one thing.
“That’s the question.”
“Is the room clear now?”
“I certainly hope so.”
I launched myself into a pacing trip around the bedroom, fuming with frustration and angst all the way. Nicolina stepped into the room and indicated for us to follow her back up to the roof. Minutes later, the three of us crowded to the back of the pergola.
“Seraphina has returned to the basement to secure the canal door and then will return to the house to continue the sweep. I will go through
the house with Zara to see what may be missing before returning to the task of studying the will against the contents of the vault. The clues may lay there. You may assist me,” she said magnanimously, waving a hand to include both Evan and myself.
“Whatever you need,” Evan said. “I am here to prove the sincerity of Sir Rupert’s efforts to work with you.”
“And I no longer hold Rupert responsible for these thefts and Maria’s death. Too many things do not add up.”
But I was barely paying attention. Something like a collision of seemingly random thoughts was hitting me just then. “If they placed these devices here, they may have done the same thing in the warehouse,” I mumbled.
Nicolina shot me a quick look. “But why?”
“They are looking for something and hoping we’ll lead them to it.” I said nothing more, my mind too busy running over the fact that what could be the most critical clue may yet remain safe. For now. “I have to go back to the warehouse tonight.”
I heard Nicolina’s breath catch. “Why?”
“I don’t want to say. Everything I’ve said to date has been recorded apparently. How do we know that we’re not being eavesdropped on still? I’ll go, collect what we need, and come right back. How long would it take—maybe twenty minutes at the most? I know the way. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you,” Evan said.
“You won’t fit. It was challenging enough for the three if us to squeeze through that corridor,” I said.
“This is true,” Nicolina said. “A big man would find it very difficult.”
“I will manage. I said,” Evan enunciated between his teeth, “I will come with you. It’s too dangerous for you go there alone.” He was towering over me, using the intimidation of his six foot two of height to hammer home his point.
That was new. I stepped back. “Don’t do that, Evan, don’t use that male thing on me.” I was looking him straight in the eye—not that that was easy in the shadowy light, and being over a foot shorter didn’t help. Actually, it was bloody awkward. “If you want to protect me, stay near the tunnel entrance and watch my back. Seraphina kicked that tunnel door open earlier tonight, leaving it compromised, and the canal door gaping, too. I’d feel much safer knowing those two entrances were protected.”
The Carpet Cipher Page 14